Biographer's Revenge
by poeticmaiden
Summary: You can only insult your biographer's writing so much before he takes it into his head to get revenge. Another oneshot written for the Watson's Woes community.


**Yet again, a oneshot written for the weekend writing prompt from Watson's Woes -- this week's being "pranks or practical jokes." Amazing what a deadline and a beautiful participant icon will do to inspire the muse, because until this morning I wasn't even planning on writing this. Please, enjoy. **

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I had made the mistake of allowing Holmes to read over one of my latest stories for The Strand that morning. Of course, it was only after he had read it all the way through that I discovered that he was in one of his disputatious moods, and that I had just given him all the fuel he needed to go on for nearly half an hour on what romanticized nonsense my writing was, and how he would barely be able to recognize the fact that the stories mirrored some of his own cases if I had not taken the bother of attaching his name to the protagonist.

"You appear to be pretty well-versed in exaggeration yourself, Holmes, to be able to say that," I retorted testily.

As usual, he did not reply to my remark, but continued in his own vein. "If literature proceeds to run the course it is currently following, it will be the downfall of the orderly mind. How can there be room for logic when the mind is cluttered up with so much emotional nonsense?"

I was more than grateful that a telegram from Lestrade arrived at that moment, or the tirade might have gone on for another half-hour. Apparently, it was a case that held some promise, for he seemed to forget entirely about me, storming off into his room and leaving me fuming under my breath about how most people would have encouraged the creative literary genius beneath their roof instead of treading him underfoot at every opportunity. I wondering if I would get a better reaction by turning myself into a poet and demanding that my artistic pleasure be catered to, blackmailing my detractors with the threat of portraying them in an unfavorable light in my next work.

Wait, there might be something to that last idea....

Holmes reappeared, having forgotten, as usual, that he had done anything to make me grumpy, asking cheerily if I would like to come along, and declaring that the case promised to be one that belonged in my annals. I almost thought about saying no to that childishly hopeful face, but in my heart of hearts I really did want to come. He informed me that the case required us to spend a night in Sussex, and that I had five minutes to pack.

Needless to say, finding myself sitting in a cab five minutes later with the dread knowledge that I had most definitely forgotten my toothbrush (and probably several other important items) was not exactly a comfortable feeling, and did nothing to improve my dark mood.

Silence reigned all through the ride the the station and the train trip out to the location of the crime we were to investigate, which gave me adequate time to brood and contemplate what form of revenge, if any, I should use against my fellow-lodger. I suppose it would be best to forgive and forget... but he was bound to rail me about my writing again if I did not do something to show that it really offended me. How I wished for Holmes's brain, for I could come up with nothing that would leave a significant impression, and yet wouldn't hurt him terribly.

We arrived at the little out-of-the-way stop where Lestrade had promised he would meet us. The place turned out to be nothing more than a platform with a lone bench. This bench we claimed for ourselves while we waited, Holmes staring off into space with his pipe in his mouth, and I reflecting moodily on the insufficient time I had been given to pack. What else had I forgotten? My razor?

I had kicked my suitcase under the bench, and I bent down to unstrap it to see what else I was missing, when my eyes caught sight of Holmes's shoe-clad feet, resting less than six inches away from one of the straps of my suitcase. One of the shoelaces was in the process of coming untied, but of course Holmes was so preoccupied that he hadn't noticed.

Heaven forgive me for what I did next, but the temptation was just too great. And besides, he was so wrapped up in his case that he didn't even blink when I straightened up with what must have been the first hints of a guilty look on my face.

As an added precaution against him reading my expression and knowing something was up, I rose and wandered over to the edge of the platform to gaze down the country lane which was bound to bring our ride, my back towards Holmes. Less than a minute passed before I saw a buggy approaching, bearing the little inspector and a man with a woe-stricken face that must have something to do with the problem that required Holmes's brain power. I could only surmise, for as of yet Holmes had told me nothing of the affair, and I had been too moody to ask.

And what an important client he appeared to be! Even my untrained eye could not help but note the magnificent gold watch-chain on display across his middle, and the obvious air of great wealth. I regret to say that in the awe of the moment I completely forgot about my prank, for if I had remembered I would have surely repented of it. But I did not.

"Ah, Doctor Watson!" Lestrade greeted me as the buggy came to a halt. "So glad you came along, for as it turns out, we may have need of your medical opinion. A new development has arisen since I telegraphed Holmes to come."

The two men dismounted and ascended the steps to shake my hand.

"This is Lord Mountjoy," Lestrade said by way of introduction, "father of the unhappy girl who disappeared two nights ago. But where is Mr. Holmes?"

I turned and looked toward the bench, where Holmes appeared to have just emerged from the fog of his brain. His eyes lit up at the sight of the Lestrade and Lord Mountjoy, and he rose eagerly, throwing out one of his long legs in preparation for one of those energetic strides that would have carried him to us in a few moments.

Of course, his leg couldn't quite obey the summons. I was sincerely glad that I had turned around, for I got a perfect view of his face before he hit the ground. It was the kind of utterly bewildered expression that one does not normally expect to see on the face of Sherlock Holmes. That and the startled yelp that he gave are forever impressed upon my memory, for better or for worse.

Poor Lord Mountjoy looked very confused. Lestrade's eyebrows had a sudden meeting with his hairline, and out of the corner of my eye I caught a glimpse of his chest shaking with restrained laughter. I'm afraid I didn't do nearly as well as he did, for the over-exuberant chuckle broke from my throat before I could help it.

"WATSON!" He tried to rise, but his shoelaces still held together, and he only fell on his face again. I did not feel inclined to go help him at the moment.

"Holmes," I said between bursts of laughter, trying to wipe away the tears in my eyes, "I can't help it if you're so caught up in a case that you accidentally tie your shoelaces together."

"If _I_ tie my shoelaces together?" he repeated furiously. "We both know I did nothing of the kind! Now get over here, you traitorous fiend, and help me up!"

"Would you like me to untie your shoelaces before I do?"

"I don't trust you anywhere near my shoelaces! Lestrade, do you have your pocket-knife?"

"Now now, Mr. Holmes," Lestrade said, grinning, "I won't be an accomplice to the good doctor's murder."

"Not him, you idiot: my shoelaces! Watson, are you going to help me, or are you just going to leave me lying here?"

Still laughing, I assisted him to his feet, ignoring the murderous glares he sent my direction. Once the detective was on his feet, (albeit leaning on my shoulder), Lestrade had the decency to come over and untangle the (now very tight) knot I had put in the laces. Free at last, Holmes walked over to Lord Mountjoy and shook his hand. The nobleman chuckled softly.

"Well, sir, I did not expect our meeting to be so.... erm, unusual.... but I must say, I am exceedingly glad you've come. I have read many of the stories of your friend, Dr. Watson, and I have every confidence that if anyone can get my daughter back, you can."

"You are most generous with your trust," Holmes said, his ruffled nerves beginning to settle again at the nobleman's words. "I will do my best. Now please, tell me everything you know."

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"Holmes," I said, some weeks later, "I've finished writing my account of the Mountjoy case. Perhaps you would like to read it over?"

He snorted. "I see no reason why you should want me to. Even if I give my opinion – and I've already formed an idea of what that's going to be – you will persist in stuffing it full of florid descriptions and false drama."

I smiled to myself, having expected a response of this kind. "Very well. My copy is sitting here on the table in case you wish to look it over. I'm going down to deliver it to The Strand." I rose and left on my errand, leaving him smoking in his chair, looking for all the world like he didn't intend to move from that position for the next twenty years.

Therefore, it was to my surprise that upon my return I found him pacing the room vigorously, a dark look on his face and several familiar sheets of paper clenched tightly in his hand.

"Liar!" he cried when I entered the room, shaking the papers at me. "I did not trip over my own shoelaces!"

"But you did," I protested, trying to restrain a smile. "Or what else do you propose you tripped over?"

"That's not what I mean, and you know it! In your little account, you omitted the very important fact that _you_ were the one who tied them together! I still can't fathom why you even mentioned it, since it obviously had no bearing on the case! I have seen you write some pretty outrageous things, Watson, but this beats everything!" He sank into his chair and glared at me, completely disgusted. "I forbid you to publish it!"

"Already done, I'm afraid," I said, with not nearly the remorse he would have liked.

He scowled at me and tried to light his pipe, burning his fingers in the process and sending the offending match flying into the grate.

"I am singularly offended, Watson."

"Well, so was I."

He looked up at me with a confused frown.

"You might think twice next time before insulting your biographer," I said, seating myself across from him in my own chair. "You never know what I might let slip into print. And believe me, I can do much worse things than tying your shoelaces together."

He sighed. "Very well, have it your way. But I shall insist upon reading every story you plan to submit _before _it reaches the editor of The Strand!"

I rose, chuckling, and walked over to my desk, intent on writing a telegraph to my editor, telling him that I had a small change I wished to make in my most recent story.

That, of course, was before I found the snake in my desk drawer, the discovery of which immediately banished all such thoughts from my mind.

But I refuse to put that particular incident into print.


End file.
